Dear Journal,
Today is the last day of my Senior year. I remain an undatable, unkissed virgin. I have no regrets about this, as I haven’t met a boy who is even remotely interesting enough to consider swapping spit and DNA with. However, where else can you be entirely truthful about the sad facts of your life except in your journal?
Moving past my pathetic nonexistent love life, I would also like to add I graduated at the top of my class with honors as their Valedictorian, meaning I will be giving a graduation speech in the presence of my 428 other classmates as well as their extended family members and honored guests in a building which has the capacity to hold 5,682 people. I’ve checked.
Therefore, it is at this time that I must state my grievance once more over the fact that my mother would not let me join 4-H with my best friend Jenni Lee in the 4th grade. Had I been raised in 4-H, I’m sure I would have the courage I need to prevent me from having a full-on, Defcon 4 meltdown, complete with the most humiliating blackout that can only be fully appreciated in the presence of a high school graduation audience - standing room only.
As it is, I may have to buy a contraband Xanax from Sheldon, the not-so-secret supplier of little white pills to the entire student body, to keep it together. Sheldon mysteriously remains inconspicuous, despite the fact that he may or may not be 21, and still in high school. Or, I can just rely on my endless supply of white notecards that are as monotonous as my reading inflection, which has never failed to put my audience to sleep within the first five minutes. My best friend, Jenni, tells me I have a soothing voice, but I think she’s just being kind.
These are the facts: I’m eighteen years old. I’m going to be graduating soon. I’ve read a book a week for the past four years, which makes 208 books, which is 49 books short of my reading goal, 257, a major personal disappointment. However, I’ve got this summer to make up the difference, which I intend to do, as I’m pretty sure my mother is giving me the summer off; a grand gesture that is just one more attempt to bribe me into undergoing “the great transformation” via Olivia’s Salon, which shall miraculously occur before I fly off to Texas Tech, my mother’s alma mater, “the very creator of Mary Jane Johnson!”, a fact she loves to remind me of quite frequently, to which I reply each time in an equally enthusiastic tone that only irritates her further “as did Beatrix Cobb and Hortense Dixon and many other great intellectual women.”
I’m excited to attend Texas Tech, home of the one-and-only professor who wrote one of the greatest history books of all time on Native Americans, IMO. However, my mother’s excitement lies in her highest aspiration for me - becoming a member of her former sorority house. I have sneaking suspicions she’s been sending hefty checks for the past four years to them to insure said dreams come true.
While living with a bunch of fashion-conscious divas whose greatest dream is to land a future state senator sounds like my worst nightmare, perhaps living in a sorority house for a few years will make up for the fact that I am not the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, queen of gymnastics, gym-rat buns-of-steel, pom-pom waving beauty queen Texas Cheerleader daughter my mom secretly always wished for.
I am, and always will be, a hazel-eyed, unruly-haired bookworm with nut-brown tresses who has an unforgivable affinity for using unnecessary, and often-times, extensive and outdated vocabulary. My loyalty is forever pledged to Stephen King, who once said “Non-readers live one life. Readers live thousands.” Until next time, Journal, I remain faithfully yours.
Amy Evalina Smith